


Come on, Baby (the correlation is not causation remix)

by Red



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Childbirth, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mpreg, Pregnant Sex, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik might be past-due for a normal pregnancy, but by the fourth time, he should realize he's well within time for one of his. That doesn't mean he's not going to try speeding things along.</p><p>Charles just hopes he survives (and wishes Erik could be faster getting in the car, once the show gets started).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come on, Baby (the correlation is not causation remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstlightofeos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Come On, Baby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946322) by [firstlightofeos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos). 
  * In response to a prompt by [firstlightofeos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos) in the [xmen_remix_madness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmen_remix_madness2015) collection. 



> Firstlightofeos, thanks for all the grand fics, and I hope you enjoy this (super anonymous) remix! :D

At this rate, he should just retire. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he groans, as Erik throws a leg over him for the third time today. 

It’ll happen one day, Charles is certain, one of these times he’s going to have a heart attack. Between his age, the time-honored (but cardiovascularly ill-advised) Lehnsherr family recipes, the stress of his job and the kids and the _fourth_ pregnancy he’s had to weather with Erik, it’s _already_ the perfect infarction storm. Add in nearly a month’s supply of Viagra, taken in a week… 

“You die, and I’ll kill you,” Erik growls, already thrusting back. He rides Charles with the single-minded determination of a man who is fucking his husband with only one goal in mind. 

Charles just wishes it was a slightly more pleasant goal; or even one a bit more scientifically sound. 

Steadying Erik’s heavy (« _I heard that_ ») arse in his hands, Charles just attempts to hang on and not get crushed (« _I do have an insurance policy out on you, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea…_ »). 

Every time since Anya, it’s been like this. To be honest, Charles was surprised there _was_ a time after Anya in the first place. But by the time Anya turned three, it was as if the memories of her infancy and Erik’s pregnancy had become distant—a pleasant, rosy past where they heard a whole hell of a lot less of the word “no”—or faded enough, anyway, to forget a condom one time too many. 

Then, after David… Well, he was such a sweet baby, and somehow Edie convinced them that _see, it really does get easier as you have more kids_ (Charles is just tactful enough to keep private that he’s sure she only thinks that because she had _Erik_ first), and before they could remember what a colossally bad idea More Kids was, Erik was pregnant with the twins. 

Charles still doesn’t know how he didn’t wind up with a vasectomy after _that_. What were they even thinking? _We’re in our forties with four kids, we’ll never have time for sex again_ , probably, but nevertheless, here they are. Five years later, and none the wiser.

Even if he doesn’t know _how_ they got here, Charles does rather think Erik should, by his fourth pregnancy, be used to the gestation period. 

Forty-two weeks, that’s just how long it takes for them. Maybe Erik’s feeling hopeful after the last time—the twins, perhaps merely on Pietro’s impetus, had the grace to emerge “early” at week thirty-nine—but once again, Charles finds himself trying to fuck Erik into labor. 

“This is ridiculous,” he pants, as Erik continues to ride him. Erik grunts in response, quietly—the kids are all at Raven’s, but by now it’s old habit—and keeps up the unrelenting rhythm. 

“You do know they’ll just come out anyway? It’s nothing to do with the sex,” he tries, and Erik shakes his head. 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yes I know that, that’s how babies work—” 

“Just fuck me, you don’t know when we’ll have another chance,” Erik snaps, contorting a bit to get his face buried against Charles’s neck. 

Okay, maybe he has a point. Or at the least, he’s started doing something Charles can actually _feel_ , sucking feverish kisses against sensitive skin, so Charles gives in and lets him have his way. 

Still, to no one’s surprise, Erik doesn’t go into labor that day. Or the next. 

Two days later, Charles is considering booking them _both_ into the hospital. Surely he should be on telemetry for this much sex, and even if Erik claims he could be a defibrillator in a pinch, Charles isn’t entirely convinced. 

And it’s during one of their increasingly-rare breaks from uncomfortable marathon sex—Charles insistent that they need water sometime, and he should really do the laundry while the kids are at school, anyway—that Erik finally ( _finally, finally_ ) starts going into labor. 

Charles senses it from the laundry room: the shock of the contraction, and Erik’s reaction to it. 

_False alarm,_ he’s thinking, even though by the fourth go he bloody well knows better. 

«You _can_ go into labor when you’re not on my lap», Charles sends, continuing to folding the laundry, taking his time about it. Erik doesn’t seem to be in any particular rush and that’s fair: if the previous labors are anything to go by, there’s no use getting excited for hours yet. 

The hospital’s only a half-hour drive, and there’s a lot to be done, anyway. Charles calls Raven, gives her the good news and the expected duties of watching the kids overnight; he packs up a tote for the car (listening to Erik gripe about it the whole time, _when do we ever need towels on the way to the hospital, Charles_?); he finishes grading a few papers. Erik’s just as industrious: doing a load of dishes, finding the breast pump in the garage, cleaning the kitchen, and then once his contractions are close enough together for Charles to consider shoving him in the car, he insists on a shower.

“I’m not going there sweaty.”

“You’ll be sweaty, you’re giving birth! Get in the car, Erik.” 

“I know how this goes! I’ll be fine, it’ll just be a short one,” Erik insists. 

Well, Charles thinks, heading out to start the car and get his chair situated in the back, Erik _does_ know how this goes. He’s still well within schedule, for how his labors usually go—even with the shower, they’ll be at the hospital with hours to spare.

***

They’re halfway to the hospital before Charles starts to think that maybe, just maybe, Erik is wrong. 

“Oh, shit,” Erik says, after breathing through what looked—and sounded and felt second-hand—like a particularly nasty contraction. 

“What?” Charles asks. His knuckles are pale, gripping the hand controls and the steering wheel tight, and he glances over. 

The answer is immediately apparent. 

“Water broke,” Erik says, unnecessarily. Charles gnaws at his lip, carefully not saying a word about it. He _knew_ he should have put some towels down. What the hell was he thinking? Isn’t that driving-to-the-hospital 101? The towels? He did it with Anya and David, but by the twins—

Erik shouts out, then, loud and agonized. Charles forgets all about the upholstery. 

“Hold on,” he says. He means it to be reassuring, but it comes out a bit more like a panicked order. Erik pants through his nose, not even bothering to tell Charles what an idiot he is, _of course he knows not to have a baby in a moving vehicle_. 

Whenever Charles can spare his attention from the road, Erik looks more and more flushed and sweaty, and worse—more and more _concerned_. 

“Please hold on,” Charles begs, this time to Erik’s stomach. “We’re almost there, baby, just a little more time.” 

Erik makes a soft, disquieted sort of noise, and that more than anything else...

Charles speeds up a little more. 

They make it maybe another half-mile, before Erik fumbles to grab at his arm.

“Charles. Pull over,” Erik begs, pushing down his sweatpants. 

Charles wishes he had a hand to spare to shove them back up. 

“What? Erik—”

“Pull. The fuck. Over! She’s already coming out, she’s already—" his voice hitches. "I fucking need your help,” Erik pleads, and Charles feels the car jerk with Erik’s powers. 

“But—but we need to get to the hospital, I don’t know what to do, can’t you just—” 

“We waited too long for—”

“ _We_ waited?” Charles asks, incredulous, but Erik can’t give him much of an answer beyond a pained yell. 

Charles glances from the road, down Erik’s wet sweatpants and spread thighs and his contracting stomach and oh god this is happening. This is really happening. 

_In his car_. 

He pulls over. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and then reaching for Erik’s, “okay—”

“Quit saying ‘okay’ you—oh, fuck!” Erik groans, reaching his own hands between his legs. Charles isn’t sure he shouldn’t keep driving: even if he’s seen more than enough of these, he isn’t a doctor, and he can’t exactly crawl between Erik’s legs. 

Still, probably safer to not give birth in a _moving_ vehicle, even if Charles is superfluous to the action. 

“Okay,” he tries, again, leaning forward to at least see what’s going on. “She’s head-first, so—” 

“I can fucking tell that,” Erik hisses, pleasant as he ever is during labor. “Fuck, fuck—” 

“Just push,” Charles says, reaching for the tote bag in the back. Thank god he’d insisted on it, whatever Erik said. Erik cries out again, loud and pained. Charles supposes he’ll have to do the I-told-you-so routine later. 

“You’re doing great, love, you got this,” he soothes—even though Erik’s mind is projecting seething anger and not much else—and he’s barely got the blankets out of the tote when, in one last vicious contraction, she’s out and in Erik’s hands. 

“Oh my god,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” Erik gasps, and the baby— _Lorna_ , thank god they came up with a name earlier, what if they had to name her after the car, _Lorna_ —gives a strong, angry wail of agreement. 

Charles wraps the blanket around her, rubbing her back briefly. Erik’s pale, sweat-soaked and half naked, and Charles smiles at him. 

“She’s wonderful,” he says. 

Erik smiles back. “She’s impatient, that’s for sure.” 

Buckling up again—and using a tendril of Erik’s power to get him buckled in, as well—Charles starts the ignition. They’re only a few miles from the hospital, now, and while Erik might be able to handle the placenta on his own, Charles isn’t so sure _he_ can. 

“Told you it wasn’t the sex,” he says, pulling back into traffic. Erik snorts, dismissively. He’s focused on unbuttoning his shirt and getting Lorna to latch, and Charles grins, watching the road. 

_Next time, no sex marathons. I won’t have to call off work so much_ , Charles thinks, _and we’ll leave earlier for the hospital. Or we could just have one at home, that wasn’t so bad, it’s not like we enjoy the hospital, and—_

“Quit it,” Erik says, as if he’s the mind reader. He’s still grinning down at Lorna, who seems exceptionally competent at nursing, content where she is. 

Maybe she just likes cars. 

“She may be wonderful, but she’s the last one,” Erik swears, before glancing up to fix Charles with a glare. “Even if sex doesn’t start labor, it still leads to it.”

 _And if you ever want any again, you’ll get fixed_ , he’s thinking, and Charles just grins, knowing that it’s true.


End file.
